Fracture
by izzabella11
Summary: When John is broken, Sherlock should be the one to pick up the pieces. There's a problem though - John's determined to keep this from his housemate. Mentions of violence and rape with eventual hurt/comfort goodness.
1. Chapter 1

**So it always seems to be Sherlock who gets attacked/abused/raped – I thought I'd torment John for a bit instead. Sadly none of this belongs to me apart from the rabid plot-bunnies and a lovely bunch of roses and lilies on my dining table.**

**On with the fic!**

_It is hot. He can feel sweat trickling down between his shoulder blades and beading on his forehead. It's not the burning heat of the desert, and it's quiet, and he doesn't know where he is. The sweat is coming thick and fast now, sticky between his thighs, and he feels uncomfortable but he can't place why._

_Panic rises thick and fast in his throat; he knows this is a dream, but he can't escape, can't open his eyelids, and can't move._

_Above him, the laughing starts, so many people laughing, and he hears one word cutting through the jumble of sound like a bell._

"_Freak."_

He wakes up, jaw clenched against a noise that wants to get out but damned if he'll let it, skin clammy with perspiration, heart hammering a staccato beat against his sore ribs. He can see the bruises coming up now, wrapped around each wrist like ink smudges.

It has been ten hours, fourty-three minutes since he was raped, and he doesn't have a clue what to do.

He lies in bed, staring up at the ceiling for several hours, watching the shadows ebb and flow with the passage of the cars outside, hearing the sound of revellers leaving the clubs and bars, the odd ambulance passing. It's strange because he feels more at peace than he can remember for years, his mind clear and focussed.

He knows, yes, that blocking it out isn't healthy. But thinking about it makes him want to hurt himself or someone else in a way he hasn't for many years, and if he can just push tonight to the back of his mind, maybe it'll just become a distant memory, the ghost of a bad dream. Maybe he'll get up later on this morning, have a cup of tea and read the newspaper, and it'll be like it never happened

Of course it doesn't happen like that. It _never_ happens like that.

He doesn't sleep that night. At 6.30am he swings his legs over the side of the bed, wincing at the stab of pain and then realising it doesn't hurt as much as the burn in his backside. He is lucky that not more damage was done; he's heard the stories of massive internal tearing, people bleeding out quietly even when they've got home afterwards.

He sits on the bed for a few long minutes, fighting the urge to put his head in his hands and weep like he hasn't since he was a child. Slowly, achingly slowly, the pain abates and he is able to stand up, dress himself and go downstairs. Put the kettle on, rinse his mug out with bleach and then washing up liquid (habit – dangerous, but quite probably safer than the non-bleach alternative), pour himself a cup of tea. Sherlock will be up soon and he has to look normal, he cannot let on that anything is wrong. Sherlock won't understand and any scenario he can think of that involves Sherlock figuring it out has a bad outcome.

Sure enough, his housemate is in the living room when he shuffles in, angular limbs folded into his usual chair. He holds out a hand for his tea, not even looking up from the thick dusty tome in his lap.

John steadies his face, forces a fine tremor into his hand, and in the most solid voice he can muster, sighs a "Good morning, Sherlock".

His heart thumps wetly against his breastbone and he swears he only stops from breaking into a sweat through sheer force of will.

Sherlock grunts, doesn't look up, and turns a page of his book.

John may never have been more relieved in his life.


	2. Chapter 2

**I would just like to say a huge thank you to everyone who's added this to their favourites and particularly those who've left reviews; I really appreciate it. On with the fic!**

He does better than he would have expected for the first few hours of his day. One of the perks of going back to work was the distraction; primarily from Sherlock, but today from...what he wasn't going to think about.

It was a nice surgery – much busier than Sarah's, and he would be eternally grateful for her kind but fallacious reference for him, with a predominantly old clientele which made a relaxing change from the criminals of greater London who he dealt with at night.

Today he had seen a gentleman with piles, a lady with earache and a toddler with an upset stomach; all treatable, nothing sinister, and all of them had left with a grateful smile and a thank you. Call him needy, but he did enjoy having some recognition from time to time.

One more patient before lunch, he decides, looking at the clock behind his desk and steadfastly ignoring the stiffness in his back. He presses the buzzer to call the next patient in and indulges himself in a stretch, roughly pressing his fingers into his shoulder to try and ease the ache, rounding his back and feeling the vertebrae crack refreshingly.

There is a quiet tap at the door and he straightens up, sliding a smile onto his face.

"Come in."

The girl is relatively young and everything about her screams unease. He knows he shouldn't do it, but he can tell already what the consultation will be. Morning after pill, pregnancy test, contraception advice. No other reason (he ignores his inner voice telling him he is starting to think like Sherlock) for a girl this young to have a midday appointment without a parental figure and to be looking so anxious; her fingers twist in her hair and she chews her lip periodically.

John gestures towards the chair and leans back, trying to make his body language less threatening.

"I'm Dr Watson" he says calmly, holding out a hand which she shakes, palm cool and damp, "What can I do for you?"

She clasps her hands in front of her, hair hanging down over her face though not enough to disguise the dark circles under her eyes.

"I, um, had sex with a guy last night. It's not the kind of thing I usually do, y'know? And I was drunk and he was drunk and we just didn't think…"

'And I need the morning after pill/a pregnancy test' John filled in mentally, stopping his hand from twitching towards the prescription pad.

"I think I might have HIV" she says, so quietly that he almost doesn't hear her, and when the jumble of sounds rearrange themselves and drop into place in his mind he honestly thinks he's going to pass out. His vision swims and blurs and he wonders how he, a trained doctor, can possibly have been so fucking _stupid_.

"Okay" he says, and hears the words as though from underwater, "Well let's get that sorted out.

He reassures her as best he can that they won't find anything for at least a couple of months, gives her a PEP pack and books her in for an appointment and some counselling. Then he does what would get him struck off the register if anyone were to find out about it (which they won't; living with Sherlock for this long has taught him at least basic skills of deception) and fills out a prescription for a fake patient for another PEP pack and tucks it in his suitcase.

His eyes feel sore and tired, his head throbs, his arse throbs. His stomach spikes with what is almost undoubtedly psychosomatic pain although might be lack of food. The bruises on his wrists jar every time he moves. He doesn't want to be here any more, though he barely knows where would be better.

In his lunch break he walks briskly to a chemist far enough away that they won't know him by face or name, keeping his chin down just to be safe, and waits in a hard backed chair while the counter assistants bustle around behind the partition.

When the pharmacist comes out with the paper bag of drugs, he's never felt so judged in his life. He keeps his head down and nods and makes sounds of affirmation in the right place as the pharmacist talks him through the side effects and offers him sensitive information on safe sex, and flees the shop as soon as he can.

He wakes up the next morning in agony, his stomach clenching and cramping and his head pounding. He can feel from the buzzing in his ears that he's going to vomit but knows he won't make it to the bathroom, and hunches over his bin instead, his shoulder throbbing in time with his head.

Sherlock must be out – he would have heard John retching if he was in, which is of some consolation.

Eventually the nausea fades although the stomach cramps and headache persist, and John allows himself to slump back into his bed, too exhausted to hunt for water or toothpaste or anything else that would probably make him feel more human.

His eyes slip closed – just for a few moments, he tells himself, then he'll get up – and before he knows what's happening reality has folded blissfully in on itself and he is floating away into unconsciousness.

_Next chapter: John wakes up to an unexpected visitor._


	3. Chapter 3

_Thud._

_His head hit the wall, a hand fisted in his collar, rough fingertips brushing over his…_

_Thud._

_His knees hit the floor, and all he could think about was that he was choking on dust and…_

_Thud._

_He banged his fist fruitlessly on the floor, anything to take away the…_

_Thud._

_The pain, the absolute agony…_

_Thud._

_Thud._

_Thud._

"_John"_

_Thud._

Thud.

He bolts upright, his sore ribs protesting immediately, his breath catching. The room is dark, the curtains still drawn, but the door is open and Mycroft stands in the doorway, his umbrella ever present, thumping against the floor.

"Good afternoon, John"

Mycroft's tone is pleasant, but his eyes are steely and he holds the umbrella (mercifully silent) as though prepared to use it as a weapon at any given moment. John has immense faith in his military training and sharp reflexes, but experience has taught him never to underestimate a Holmes.

He drags himself upright in the bed, not willing to risk the potential embarrassment of trying to stand, and swallows with difficulty, still tasting vomit at the back of his throat and wishing he'd had the energy for water. The idea of Mycroft seeing him like this was…well, excruciating.

"Afternoon" he manages, hoarsely, and Mycroft's nose seems to turn up even further than normal.

There is silence for a few beats while Mycroft's eyes rake over John, the bedroom, the soiled bedsheets and bin.

"Did we overindulge a little last night?" he asks with a sneer, and John thinks he might have fallen down if he hadn't been sitting already. In his mind, the brilliant brother of the detective would have realised somehow that the sickness was due to the antiretrovirals – is it a mistake, he wonders, or is it just that he figures so little into Mycroft's plans that the reason behind his illness is simply irrelevant?

"Did you need something?"

It's not too hard for him to inject a little waspishness into his tone – he still feels dreadful and wants nothing more than a shower and some paracetamol.

"I need to know about Sherlock's case."

"You should probably ask Sherlock then. He's out at the moment but I'm sure he'll be delighted to see you when he's back."

John is gratified to see Mycroft's grip tighten imperceptibly on the handle of his umbrella; it always fills him with a sense of satisfaction to see either of the brothers come even close to losing their cool.

"Please don't be awkward, John. I can assure you that I can make this visit less pleasant if you persist in being unhelpful."

The fight gone out of him, John sighs and slumps again.

"I'm sorry" he says genuinely, "Whatever the case is, it's new since I last saw Sherlock. He hasn't told me anything, or asked for my help."

The look on Mycroft's face says clearly that he doesn't believe his brother has every 'asked for help' but he seems convinced (as well he should – it's the bloody truth!) and wishes John a speedy recovery as well as reminding him to look out for Sherlock and make sure he's getting enough food and rest before taking his leave.

No longer than a minute after Mycroft has gone, Sherlock whirls in in a cloud of flapping coattails, leaves and righteous indignation.

"What did he want this time?" he demands, flinging himself into a chair and depositing a bag of Chinese takeaway on the table. John's stomach lurches and he has to swallow hard before he can answer.

"Wanted to know what you're working on."

"And what did you tell him?"

"I told him everything I know"

Sherlock's lips twitch up into a smile and he looks at John for the first time since he's blown in.

"You look dreadful."

It's not a question; John doesn't answer and Sherlock doesn't comment further.

He feels his flatmate's gaze on him for several minutes after he has picked up the paper, and fights the urge to pull at the sleeves of his jumper, or squirm in his seat, or anything else that Sherlock could possibly use to piece together what has happened. He can feel the bruises as imprints in his skin; if he concentrates he can feel the rough fingers digging in for purchase, the pain grounding him, focussing him, keeping him conscious.

Panic claws at him, hot and irrational, and forces him into action.

"I'm going to get some milk" he says as calmly as he can, "want anything while I'm out?"

When he looks up, Sherlock's head is buried in a book and a negative shake of black curls is his only response.

Outside he slumps down on the doorstep, his legs suddenly weak beneath him. He feels drained, sick, achey all over and he's not able to fool himself that it's only the medicine making him feel that way. The idea that this feeling might just become normal to him makes him tremble, and the tightness in his chest that he had felt inside becomes more pronounced.

"I am not going to have a panic attack in the middle of the street" he mumbles aloud, pressing his fingers to his temples and trying to take deep breaths. Four in, six out is what he's always told patients in the absence of a paper bag. He can feel his pulse and respiratory rate rising and can't help the flutter of panic that goes with a positive feedback cycle like this one. Eventually he knows that a combination of panic, excessive energy expenditure and reduced oxygen supply will render him unconscious at which point his breathing will regulate and he'll probably be as good as new when he comes around. It's just getting to that point that's the painful part – or so he's been told, he's never even come close to experiencing this before.

People are beginning to notice him now; a middle aged man slumped against the door, breath coming in short gasps, and they cross the road to avoid him. Of course they do, he thinks, knowing what he looks like.

When the street begins to tilt at his feet, he's on the verge of closing his eyes when the door slams open into his back, knocking him off the step and sprawling onto the pavement. Pain blossoms through his already injured ribs, although it does seem to have shaken him out of his panic. When he rolls over, Sherlock is standing over him with a flat expression.

"What is going on, John?"


	4. Chapter 4

**Warning: this chapter is angsty and contains graphic mentions of self-harm**.

He sits up, back throbbing, and tries an innocent look.

"I was on my way to get milk and my leg cramped."

"Please, John, credit me with a little intelligence. Your leg pain, as we both know, is psychosomatic. And even if it wasn't, you've been sat out here long enough to have walked to the shop and back twice, so I repeat: what is going on?"

"Nothing. Look, I just haven't been feeling very well. Flu or something."

Sherlock's brow furrows, and John allows his flustered and embarrassed expression to show.

"Why didn't you just say? Well of course; fear of appearing weak – military background, potential causes…"

John tips his head back, letting the words wash over him. Another bullet dodged – maybe, he could never really tell with Sherlock – but something else would pique his friend's interest eventually. He was going to figure it out eventually.

Sherlock has clearly finished talking now and is looking at John with veiled concern.

"Back inside, I think" he comments, helping John to his feet with surprising gentleness and shepherding him through the open door and up the stairs.

"Tea?" he enquires, and John barely fights back a groan.

"Alright" he says, moving towards the kitchen, but Sherlock blocks his path.

"I was offering, not ordering" he says, with a quirk of his lips, and John blinks.

"Well that's unusual. Um, no, don't fancy it. Thanks though."

He shuffles upstairs, feeling worse by the second, and has to stop outside the bathroom to empty his stomach before remembering the state of his bedroom. As much as he wants to curl up in bed, it doesn't appeal and he strips the sheets exhaustedly, the room spinning around him as he moves towards the door.

Sherlock makes no comment as he sets the washing machine onto a high temperature and takes a fresh set of bedding from the cupboard, although he feels his gaze as he climbs the stairs.

Unable to go make it any further than the bathroom, he decides to take pity on his body and run a bath. The fragrant steam as it fills makes him feel slightly better and once he sinks into the hot water his aches just seem to dissolve and he sighs happily. He luxuriates in the hot water for longer than he should, until his skin begins to shrivel and he forces himself up, gripping the sides of the tub and trying to ignore the ache of his shoulder as the cool air hits it.

The sudden rush of blood from his head makes him sway and clutch at the side of the bath, and as he sinks to the floor his relaxation gives way to fear, a knot building in his throat and his shoulders shaking. He can't cry – Sherlock will hear him, will know that something is very wrong – he has to stay strong. He bites his lip, hard, feeling the coppery tang of blood on his tongue and a little burst of pain, and it helps a little, but he still feels like wailing. He digs his nails into the delicate skin on the inside of his elbow and drags down, hard, and it loosens the knot some more, leaving a pink train in its wake, but still…

…he hasn't cried since he was a boy…

…his eyes drift to the razor, discard it as a terrible idea, drift back. The idea of Sherlock walking in, seeing him weeping on the side of the bathtub, the idea of the pity or the revulsion if he found out…

His eyes prickle and burn and before he even knows what he's doing, the blade is poised over his upper arm and he's drawing it down, seeing the skin split open. He has never cut himself before; it's not really what doctors do and he's seen enough blood for a lifetime in Afghanistan and in the course of his work with (for?) Sherlock. It hurts – it stings, and it takes his mind off the panicked burning in his eyes and throat. Only a shallow cut, a few droplets of blood coalesce and trail down his arm, and he finally allows himself to take a deep breath and stand more slowly.

As though on autopilot he rinses off the blade and dries it, puts it back on the shelf, dabs a little Savlon on the cut and covers it over with a plaster. It probably doesn't need it, but now his head is clear he just wants to cover it over and forget about it. The irony doesn't escape him.

He braves downstairs and is relieved when Sherlock barely looks up at him aside from a cursory glance. His stomach is grumbling furiously and he needs something to eat, even though there's a good chance that it won't stay down.

"Toast?" he offers, and Sherlock grunts a yes without looking up, and starts telling John about his research.

Maybe, John thinks, things are going to be okay.


	5. Chapter 5

John's dreams are vague this night – when he finally sleeps he doesn't recall what has passed through his mind, but he has a fleeting recollection of darkness interspersed with flashes of light, pain, floating and loud, angry noises. He wakes up, as he's becoming used to now, with a silent gasp of breath into his aching lungs and the feel of sweat, cold and sticky on his back.

Slowly his heart rate drops and much as he'd like to shower the clamminess off his skin, perpetual tiredness wins out and his eyes drift closed again.

* * *

He wakes again, suddenly, this time from a blissfully dreamless sleep, and lies still trying to figure out what it is that has woken him so suddenly. His answer, predictably, is Sherlock. This time he is standing at the foot of John's bed, arms crossed in front of him, expression blank in the half-light.

John stretches uncomfortably, aware of all the pieces of the puzzle in this room. His still-bruised wrists under the covers, the stiffness of his shoulder, the Sherlock never comes in here; he seems to appreciate that it is John's own space, free from strange experiments and body parts and usually just shouts up the stairs if he needs something.

"What time is it?" rasps John. The medicine is still making him feel dreadful to the extent that he has relied on drinking rehydration sachets to try and keep his sodium and potassium levels in check. What he really would have liked as an addition to that would have been a long sleep, which looked increasingly like a pipe dream.

"I don't know."

The realisation strikes John like a punch to the gut that Sherlock isn't in here for a case, or an emergency. Which leave the alternatives that he might want to chat, or he might have suspected that something strange is going on and he's here to look around for clues.

Anxiety puts a sharp edge in his tone when he straights up and asks Sherlock what he's doing, and Sherlock looks visibly surprised for a split second and curious for a blood-curdling moment afterwards.

"I wanted to talk" he says hesitantly, and John's heart sinks.

"It's the middle of the night" he points out, knowing it won't make a damn bit of difference.

Sherlock smiles, clearly reading the expression on John's face, and sits down on the edge of the bed. The proximity, even of a friend, makes the hairs on the back of John's neck stand up and his mouth suddenly feels dry. He fights the urge to shuffle back on his bed, away from his friend. His friend, he has to remind himself, who isn't going to hurt him.

He thinks he's going to have to press Sherlock into talking, but just as he draws breath Sherlock rolls his shoulders back and fixes John with his piercing stare.

"This is difficult" he mutters, eyes sliding away from John, "So just listen quietly, ok?"

John says nothing; he is sure his face must be slick with sweat by now. Sherlock can probably smell his fear.

"I know something's going on. I know you're not systemically unwell and I know you're not eating or sleeping. And I know how much value you hold in your privacy, and I am honestly trying not to pry, John. I just need to know…"

There is a pause; John wonders whether he is going to continue or whether that was his cue to elaborate,

"…I need to know that I don't need to worry. Because I know that's what…friends do. And this whole friendship, caring…thing," he waves his hands around vaguely, "is still quite new to me."

John's chest aches. It's quite possibly the nicest thing that Sherlock has ever said to him and every fibre of his being wants to burst the dam and tell him what happened, let him exact his revenge, be held and be told it's alright. But that's the problem with living with a self-diagnosed sociopath; he can't do any of those things. He wouldn't know how to react; would find it hard not to apply logic and reasoning, would be ill at ease with John.

There is no way he can tell him.

John is not a good liar. He knows that his face betrays him, that Sherlock could probably pick a dozen mannerisms which give him away; he knows that it is stupid to try and outsmart a sociopath, and especially one so fearsomely intelligent as Holmes.

He knows that Sherlock is, for once, not being objective.

He takes advantage, skin crawling at his own dishonesty.

"Everything's fine."

He hesitates, leaning forward fractionally.

"Thank you for asking though, Sherlock. I appreciate it."

If Sherlock hears the break in his voice he doesn't comment, simply nodding and slipping off John's bed and into the shadows. The door clicks silently behind him and John exhales deeply, sinking into the pillows. Light is starting to creep through the ragged curtains; it's not worth his going back to sleep now.

* * *

When John has gone to work, Sherlock gives up pretence of trying to read his book and leans back onto the sofa, massaging his temples with his forefingers, thumbs steepled against his cheekbones.

He knows he has a prodigious mind; that is really no news to anyone. He knows that there is something wrong with John; knows that ten uninterrupted seconds in John's room would give him the answer. And yet…for all that he ignores social graces and politeness, he can't pretend not to understand John's almost obsessive need for personal space and privacy. Impossible to ascertain the root cause without delving further; possibly a childhood issue, likely exacerbated if not caused by his time in the army at permanently close quarters with his colleagues.

Still, that is not the issue. The issue is that nothing is happening and all he can focus on is the mystery of John Watson, and yet he's trying _not _to think about that. Easier said than done of course, and particularly with an intellect as formidable as his. It isn't like he can just turn it off, after all.

His phone buzzes, startling him from his reflections, and he looks at the message, groaning and kneading his forehead again.

"_Sherlock. Require consultation. Sending car. MH"_

John has made him into a weak man if he'll resort to letting his brother distract him. His phone buzzes again.

"_You'll get terrible wrinkles if you carry on pulling that face. MH"_

Of course, he's being watched. He stands up, moves to the window and throws his phone out violently. If it just happens to hit the windscreen of the expensive looking government issue car parked surreptitiously outside…well, that's just misfortune, surely.

Smiling to himself, he swings his scarf around his neck and exits the flat.

* * *

A/N: thank you so much to everyone who has read, reviewed and added this story as a favourite :)


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock hasn't seen surprise on Mycroft's face for well over 30 years, and he doesn't see it when he walks into his office. Far more gratifyingly, he sees his unflappable older brother drop his pen, although his face remains perfectly even.

"I didn't actually expect you to come."

"You might want to warn your therapist to cut down on your Botox next time, Mycroft" Sherlock points out mildly, ignoring his brother's statement, "The dose is quite clearly excessive and you know Mother would be upset if you accidentally poison yourself in such an asinine…"

"Yes, thank you" Mycroft cuts him off tartly and Sherlock smothers a smirk before it can escape.

"Curious as it may seem, I did not request your presence simply to be insulted."

"Just looking out for your health, brother dear."

"I'm sure."

Mycroft tries to cock an eyebrow, fails, and contemplates having his facial therapist forcibly removed from the country.

"I am curious as to the nature of your intentions towards John Watson."

Sherlock blinks once, twice, shakes his head faintly and sits down.

"Have you lost your mind, Mycroft? You're implying that there is somehow some kind of romance between a sociopath and a heterosexual army doctor."

Mycroft sits back in his chair, a not-entirely-pleasant smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"You must see it from my perspective, Sherlock. You move in together on a whim, spend all your time together, and now he is clearly pining for you. And I warn you, if you don't deal with this one way or another, I will have to involve myself."

Sherlock's mouth falls open inelegantly and Mycroft furrows his brow.

"Please don't tell me it has eluded you, Sherlock. Broken up with his girlfriend; no social life so's to speak of, and recently avoiding all contact with you, refusing to make eye contact. Poor sleep pattern, decreased appetite, excessive alcohol consumption. Absolutely classic signs of romantic infatuation."

Sherlock thinks back to John's reaction when he had walked into his bedroom this morning; discomfort, a faint sheen of sweat; had he been hiding signs of arousal? Woken up from what Sherlock had assumed to be a nightmare; had it been an erotic dream? Had he really missed this?

Mycroft's expression has softened across the table and he sits forward.

"For goodness sake, Sherlock, don't start taking this out on him. Just think about what you are going to do. You seem happier with him there."

"He buys milk" responds Sherlock, his mind elsewhere.

"He tolerates you, and trust me when I say that makes him part of a very small minority."

"I resent that"

"I'm sure you do. Tea?"

"No, no. Things to do. People to…"

"Sherlock"

Mycroft's tone is warning, although he knows it won't make a damn bit of difference.

"I shan't upset him, Mycroft. I am rather fond of the man. I just need time to think – away from irritating, repetitive noises."

"Do try not to make too big a mess of it" says Mycroft dismissively, turning back to his papers as Sherlock sweeps out of the room in a flurry of coat and scarf.

* * *

Sherlock is sat on the sofa when John comes home, as though he has never moved, his legs stretched out in front of him and fingers interlinked on his lap. He has been thinking about John all afternoon; whether Mycroft is right (his instinct is that he is not, but he is forced to accept that Mycroft knows considerably more about emotional response than he does), whether he should ask John, what will happen.

Whether he actually does have feelings for John…

He has considered the evidence. He is affectionate towards the man; doesn't shy away from physical contact. Enjoys his company in so much as he enjoys anyone's company. Cares about his feelings. But attracted to him?

He is drawn to John, that much he knows. Fascinated by the man. He's not yet been able to figure out why, because he'd got the man's life story within around ten seconds of meeting him, but nonetheless he remains intrigued. John doesn't seem to dislike some of Sherlock's foibles; he's complained vaguely about experiments in the fridge but he seems to have a higher tolerance than the majority of the population (and he makes tea, often without needing to be asked). But none of those things really explain what it is that makes John's company so pleasant to him.

The idea of losing John horrifies him. Somehow this man, this insignificant and straightforward man, has wormed his way into Sherlock's life and now he doesn't want to be without him.

And now he's afraid that he will be.

* * *

John passes almost unnoticed through the living room. Whatever is on Sherlock's mind is clearly occupying a considerable proportion of his brain and he barely stirs as John walks past, hobbling up the stairs.

He has never felt so tired in his life. One week through his PEP pack and while the vomiting and diarrhoea has settled the stomach cramps and nausea persist, and he doesn't _feel_ like eating in any case. He forces himself to drink, knows that dehydration won't help, but keeping himself busy with Sherlock and with work, focussing all his attentions and his concerns on the patients who come into his clinic, helps him to forget the nagging hunger.

He tries not to think about why he's starving himself; because that is what he's doing, no question about it. There is nothing that comes to mind that doesn't sound childish, immature or just generally pathetic. There's no earthly reason that not eating should make him feel any better or any more in control and yet…somehow it does. Just thinking about it makes him feel angry and frustrated, and turns his mind to the plaster on his arm.

That, as well, disgusts him. What sort of a doctor uses self-harm as a coping mechanism? '_The kind of doctor whose only friend is a sociopath'_ his subconscious supplies unhelpfully. He wants to do it again. The pain had distracted him from his thoughts, breaking the cycle of panic. The rush of adrenaline that was probably at least in part due to the idea of keeping something like that right underneath the nose of the world's only consulting detective was addictive.

He tries not to think about the oily feeling inside when Sherlock had spoken to him so softly and with such empathy that morning. He tries not to think about how different things could have been. He tries not to feel like he's turned his back on his only ally.

It's only 7pm but his eyes are reluctant to stay open and he leans back against his pillows, sighing heavily and massaging his forehead with his fingertips to try and ease the perpetual throbbing.

Tomorrow, he tells himself. He'll feel better tomorrow.

* * *

**A/N: Thank you again to everyone for the lovely reviews! I know everyone's rooting for Sherlock to figure it out but I hope this isn't too out of character; I can just see Mycroft and Sherlock failing at deduction involving human emotion and getting the wrong end of the stick.**


	7. Chapter 7

_It is dark, pitch black. He is in a small space, his breathing rapid and painful, his ribs aching with every lungful of air he drags in. There are hands on his back, on his hips, sliding up to his ribs, nails digging in fractionally for a few seconds before loosening, soothing the skin beneath their touch. This tenderness is even more terrifying than the brutality he's grown to expect in these dreams and he recoils violently from the hands._

_The sound of laughing rings out above him, cold and unpleasant, as the fingers dig in again hard, and he cries out in pain._

"_Stop" he tries to form, but his mouth is taped shut and he can barely make a sound. He thrashes hopelessly but is pinned down as easily as a butterfly on a board._

_The floor is soft against his cheek, and he tries to focus on that as he feels the fingers slip lower, ghosting over his hip, curling around his flaccid cock and pinching cruelly at the base._

"_Stop" he tries again, but the hands are pinning him down, all over him, probing and squeezing, and there are tears rolling down his cheeks, dripping onto the carpet._

"_Please" he begs brokenly, tears coming thick and fast, and the hands still suddenly, before shaking him hard by the shoulder. Confused and disorientated he tries to look around, his shoulder cramping and collapsing under him…_

He wakes up with a jolt, face first in his pillow, with hands gripping his shoulders and with a cry he pulls away hard and fast, knocking the hands away and rolling across the bed. The lamp comes to his hand first and he swings it towards his assailant, adrenaline surging through his veins. The other man is clearly more alert though; he catches John's wrist in a strong grasp and flicks the switch with the other hand in a beat, illuminating the room.

"Sherlock" he breathes, "What the hell?"

Sherlock is straddling him, lamp still in one hand and John's wrist in the other. His eyes are wide and his hair even more on end than usual, his breathing marginally faster than normal.

"I heard a noise"

They both stay like that for a few moments, frozen into place. Sherlock's hand feels like it's burning John's wrist but the physical contact, the sheer caring, makes him stay where he is, his heartrate slowly returning to normal.

"It was just a dream" he breathes, willing it to sound believable. He can tell he's failed, but Sherlock doesn't press it although it looks like it's paining him; instead he leaves his hand covering John's wrist and places the lamp on the floor, the room immediately darker.

"What happened to your wrist?" asks Sherlock evenly, his eyes cast down to where his hand joins John's arm. Of course, it would never be too dark for Sherlock to spot an inconvenient truth.

He thinks quickly; surprisingly quickly, given how drowsy he feels.

"There was an incident with a patient the other day. Got a bit aggressive."

Sherlock seems to accept that, humming lightly under his breath as his fingertips ghost over the marks.

"It looks painful."

"Could have been worse."

Sherlock's hand stills and moves away from John's wrist slowly.

"Sorry. I…forget you don't like to be touched sometimes."

John smiles tiredly, stuck by how childlike Sherlock looks in the half-light, lacking his usual confidence and swagger.

"It's fine, Sherlock. I'm fine."

Relieved, Sherlock moves back, awkwardly patting John's leg.

"Night, then" he says, and is gone.

Sleep comes slightly easier to John after that, and while he can't feel the slight curve of his lips that lingers long after he's passed out of consciousness he is aware the next morning that his dreams have been less sour than usual.

* * *

Sherlock can't sleep.

Not only can he not sleep, but he can't play the violin for fear of waking John, and he certainly can't _talk_ to John.

The idea of someone hurting John, especially someone John was trying to help, twinges at his fragile temper. The idea of some ill educated, obnoxious patient grasping John's wrists hard enough to leave bruises, maybe even pushing him against the wall, and with John too damn _nice_ to defend himself…

He exhaled in a puff of anger, rolling over in bed and staring at his wall.

He couldn't help the protective feeling and it bothered him. It felt so…so trite. So human, not to be able to control his emotions; not to even be able to figure them out.

And the idea of being so indebted to John, brave John who had saved his life and never hesitated once before throwing himself into danger at Sherlock's bidding, and yet not being able to protect him from some overly aggressive clinic patient…the irritation needles at his chest until he turns over onto his other side, humming softly under his breath, and letting sleep come to him.

* * *

Time goes by, and John's bruises heal, the skin lightening from blue to black to green and finally back to its normal colour. It is impossible for either of them to fully know whether John's behaviour has regressed back to the normal or whether Sherlock has adapted to the change; after all, he became easily accustomed to John entering his life. Possibly a combination of both, and aided by the unspoken agreement to let the issue drop.

Even when John wakes in the night (and it is still almost nightly; but Sherlock is out so frequently that he doesn't know it), gasping for breath and shuddering with revulsion and residual fear, Sherlock doesn't go. He doesn't ask on the days when John trembles imperceptibly at loud noises, and doesn't insist when John declines to go out for dinner with him.

For his part, John carries on in his attempts to hide everything from Sherlock. He forces himself to lie still and quiet when sleep refuses to come, and keeps anything incriminating in his bedroom where he trusts Sherlock not to snoop. Whether or not he's right to do so is something he tries not to think too carefully about sometimes.

Mycroft stays out of it, although both John and Sherlock know that it is only for the time being and they carry on like this in their own inimitable equilibrium for several weeks. But the thing with life, and with equilibriums in particular?

They exist to be disturbed.

* * *

**AN: I'm glad people were so positive towards the last chapter. I was really concerned you'd all hate it! So in return you got a little awkward hurt/comfort in this chapter. Please let me know what you think; reviews mean a lot to me.**


	8. Chapter 8

It is six weeks after the day that the nameless, faceless girl walked into John's office and told him she thought there was a chance she might have HIV. Today she sits in his clinic, face pale and drawn.

"How are you feeling?" he asks her gently, wrapping the tourniquet around her arm and preparing the syringe. She looks up at him, her eyes haunted.

"I'm fine" she says, and he wonders if he sounds this unbelievable when Sherlock asks him.

He knows that taking a blood sample is usually a nurse's job but in this case…he just wants to be there. It's ridiculous; he knows nothing about this girl, has nothing to gain from spending time with her. He tells himself that it will be easier on her to be seen by the same doctor, without much belief in his convictions.

She hisses slightly as the needle goes in, and he does his best to smile reassuringly.

"Sorry" he apologises, "Just a couple more seconds and you'll be all done."

She nods wordlessly, staring over his shoulder at an ironically placed safe-sex poster as he withdraws the needle and caps the tube.

"So we send this off now, and it'll be around ten days before you get the results back."

"Dr Watson?"

She still doesn't meet his eyes, her hair hanging down in front of her face.

"What happens…if it is positive?"

He smiles at her reassuringly.

"If the test does come back positive, there's plenty we can do. There's been a lot of research in the area and while you'll have to take tablets for the rest of your life and be extra careful about infection, it shouldn't have any impact on your life expectancy. There's lots of help and support out there."

She doesn't look hugely reassured but there's nothing he can say really, and she thanks him dully as she collects her bag and coat and leaves the room.

* * *

John himself decides to have his blood test done anonymously and travels across town to a sexual health clinic where he hopes to god they won't recognise him as a doctor or as Sherlock's sidekick.

The nurse has seen enough patients that she asks no questions and isn't overly gentle when she takes the blood, but on the other hand also doesn't mention the red lines in various stages of healing on the inside of his right elbow. She takes his work address and tells him the results will be with him in ten days, and he doesn't even look her in the eye as he leaves.

* * *

The first time it happens, he is dashing down Shoreditch High Street hot on the tails of his flatmate who is hot on the heels of a portly drug baron. They're on the verge of catching him and closing their third case this week (Sherlock has, for whatever reason, been working exceptionally hard recently) and the thrum of adrenaline in his ears wars with the sound of their feet slapping against the wet tarmac, the ragged breathing of the man running ahead of them.

In front, Sherlock lunges at the man, tackling him to the ground in a swoop of black coat and triumphant glee, and as John slows down he's overcome by a peculiar sensation; at first it's like someone's blocked his ears, the sounds outside becoming muffled. He can hear Sherlock's voice but it sounds as though it's coming from underwater, and sparks explode in front of his eyes as though he's been looking at a bright light. With a thrill of horror, he realises that he's going to faint; these are all the signs. He's never fainted before; he's lost consciousness a few times but this…well, this is just embarrassing.

He feels the roughness of the wall behind his back and slides down, resting his head between his knees until the roaring dulls down and he feels like he might be able to focus again. When he straightens up and takes a deep breath, Sherlock is looking at him with an expression he can't read, sat comfortably on the criminal's back, one hand texting someone (Lestrade, hopefully, though it wouldn't be the first time they had both assumed that the other was alerting the police and been sat in the cold for hours) and the other hand pinning the man's wrists together.

"Are you alright, John?" he asks evenly as the sirens begin to wail a few streets over and blue light bleeds through the alleyway.

"Fine" he lies easily, rubbing his side, "Just a stitch."

When they stop for takeaway that evening, he forces himself to eat until his stomach complains, and tries not to notice the curious look on Sherlock's face.

* * *

The second time is happens is less than a week later and Sherlock isn't in the flat. John has done nothing more than stand up too quickly from his bed at the sound of the doorbell ringing, and as the bell dies down the ringing in his ears picks up.

This time he isn't quick enough, and the last thing he feels as he crashes to the ground is a flash of pain in his injured leg as it hits the wooden floor first.

He wakes up, probably only seconds later, with his cheek pressed against the wooden floor and his hands trembling. The doorbell rings again and he picks himself up gingerly, waiting for the world to stop spinning and tilting before he goes down the stairs and allows the gas man to take a reading. He makes his way painfully upstairs, his knee already swollen and bruising, and makes himself a nice cup of tea with a splash of milk and a sugar, and soon he feels right as rain.

When Sherlock comes home that evening, he avoids moving for as long as he can, until it becomes apparent that Sherlock isn't going to bed any time soon and John is going to fall asleep on the chair if he doesn't get up. Hoping the detective won't notice, he levers himself up and has a blissful moment as the pain holds off for a moment before shooting needles through his neurones, and he gasps in pain and crumples to the floor.

Smooth.

Thankfully Sherlock doesn't rush to his aid; he looks at him over the top of the paper.

"Would you like a hand, John?" he asks, and John shakes his head with a forced smile.

"I'm fine"

He grips the arm of the chair, nails digging into the fabric, and tries to use his good leg to push himself up, but it's futile. Too long being sat down as well as his overall exhaustion has rendered his leg utterly useless; he can feel it buckling underneath him even as he tries to put weight on it. Hoping vainly that it will stabilise in a few seconds, he stands experimentally and lowers his weight gently.

Pain ricochets up his leg agaim and he tries to catch himself, but his arms are weak and his bodies natural reaction is to move away from the pain, and he falls heavily again. The thump he makes as he lands doesn't sound as painful as it feels and he lies face-down on the floor, biting his lip against the burn of tears at the back of his throat and the sting of humiliation. The one person he's been trying so hard to appear strong in front of is now watching him at his most pathetic.

He doesn't hear Sherlock move, but feels his presence behind him, radiating warmth and a strange but subtle smell of chloroform which is probably something that John doesn't need to be thinking about right now. He can't even bring himself to bristle or feel embarrassment as Sherlock manoeuvres him so his back is against the bottom of the chair and his legs sprawled in front of him and rolls up the leg of his jeans.

"Hmmm" he says; gets up, walks into the kitchen and returns with a bag of frozen…John doesn't want to know what, but it doesn't actually feel bad, laid surprisingly gently on his knee.

"What did you do?"

"I fell" mumbles John, refusing to meet Sherlock's eye. "The floors are very hard here."

There's a hint of a smile on Sherlock's face when he raises an eyebrow.

"They are made of wood, John."

John sleeps on the sofa that night. He can't decide whether it's coincidence that Sherlock decides to sleep in his own bed, or his flatmate being kind. If he wasn't a sociopath it would probably be an easier distinction to make.

* * *

He feels relatively refreshed the next morning when he gets up. He has a mug of tea and an apple and straps a bandage around his knee, taking two ibuprofen to manage the pain and inflammation, and for once actually catches the bus to work rather than having to walk in the rain and turn up late.

The envelope is waiting on his desk, plain and white, with his name printed on the front: "_John Watson_"

No 'Dr'.

He knows what this is; not least because it's been 10 days since his blood test.

His hands are perfectly still as he opens the envelope, slides out the letter and skims down.

He feels the colour draining out of his face, the rise of nausea in his gut, the roaring in his ears. The room spins slowly; once, twice; he lays his head on the cool wood of the desk and takes a deep steadying breath, looking at the letter again.

_Fuck._


	9. Chapter 9

The letter itself is not concerning; far from it, he feels almost lightheaded with relief. His blood results have come back negative; he doesn't have HIV.

What he has is, at this moment, far worse.

He has Mycroft Holmes on his tail.

The note at the bottom of the typewritten letter is short and to the point; his assistant has probably written it.

"_Dr Watson._

_I would like to speak with you at your earliest possible convenience. _

_MH"_

Well, he thinks, with a rising feeling of hysteria, at least he exhibits a little more tact and courtesy than his younger brother.

* * *

Said younger brother is lying in his favourite position on the sofa, fingers steepled underneath his chin, eyes closed. There are no cases; he's been working through anything that Lestrade has thrown his way voraciously, trying to distract himself. The problem is, the criminal classes are doing little of note. It's like they_ want_ him to be bored.

The crux of it is, he has decided not to pry into whatever is going on with John, but to do that he needs to be entertained, his mind needs to be occupied. With nothing to do, he physically can't help but to think about his flatmate.

The way he had collapsed the previous evening, as though his body simply refused to carry his weight; and Sherlock knew that feeling, from too many sleepless nights and chases around the city, knew it all too well. The feel of John's bones under his skin as Sherlock had dragged him to the sofa, the loll of his head, exhausted, to one side, the dark shadows under his eyes.

He thinks of what Mycroft said, and wonders whether his brother is right or not.

He wishes that he could understand.

John rings the bell for his next patient, eyes flicking unconsciously down to the letter on the desk. He can't avoid Mycroft, he knows; but he doesn't have a contact number for the man. Every time he has seen him has been on Mycroft's terms.

There is a tap at the door and a creak as it opens, and John looks up with a smile that fades to a frown, although his lips twitch in an ironic laugh.

"Mycroft" he says, torn between giggling and sobbing.

"I took the liberty of arranging an appointment at a mutually convenient time" he says, arranging himself disdainfully into the chair in front of John's desk.

"Yes, I see. Well, good."

Mycroft pins him with an uncomfortable look.

"I do hate to get involved in my brothers affairs, Dr Watson, but I'm sure you understand the delicacy of the situation."

"I'm afraid I don't understand how my _confidential_ medical records are any of your business, no."

He can feel his temper building, much as he tries to cool it with slow, deep breaths, and wonders what the repercussions of taking a swing at his flatmate's powerful, genius brother would be.

"Doctor Watson, please do not take me for an idiot. You and I both know otherwise."

"Well, frankly you're acting like a lunatic" exclaims John, his voice going up a pitch that he wishes it hadn't.

"Must I spell this out for you?"

"Please do!"

Mycroft sits back, looking faintly perturbed, as though John's ignorance has somehow surprised and disappointed him.

Actually, he usually looks like that. John's starting to become accustomed to it.

"You are pursuing a relationship with my brother, which will eventually become sexual in nature. You have concerns about your HIV status; recent concerns, which implies you have been engaging in unsafe sex. You have done everything within your limited power to prevent my brother finding out about this. Exactly what part of that would I _not_ be irate about? He may be annoying, but I am duty bound to protect him."

John freezes, unable to blink or breathe for a moment. The words jumbled together in his head; he couldn't have heard Mycroft, that was the only explanation. It must have been one of those ridiculous examples of completely mishearing a very normal phrase to mean something else.

"I…um…did you just say 'pursue a relationship?"

Mycroft frowns at him.

"A romantic relationship, you mean?"

Mycroft was beginning to wear the look of a man who feels he may have bitten off more than he can chew, but still says nothing.

"Mycroft, have you _met_ your brother?"

Laughter is bubbling up inside of him, despite the gravity of the situation, despite the fact that if Mycroft really believes this then he has probably told Sherlock, and god only knows how _he_ would react.

"I was under the impression…"

"Clearly. You were wrong."

Mycroft at least has the grace to appear abashed for a moment before his brow furrows and John knows that he is ticking through the facts, evaluating and contemplating, re-working his hypothesis. It is unnerving not only to see that expression on another face, but to know so intimately what it means, and the laughters stills and dies in his throat.

"Please believe me when I say I would never do anything to harm Sherlock" he says softly, "And please respect that fact that he is doing his best to give me as much privacy as he is capable of."

Mycroft genuinely does look surprised at that, his eyebrows raising into his hairline.

"How interesting" he says, which doesn't fill John with a great deal of confidence, but he does seem less irate and more contemplative which is a definite improvement.

Mycroft leans back this time, regarding John through a veiled gaze.

"You should have more faith in my brother, Doctor. You will find that he is not as untouched by human emotions as he would have everyone believe. You will probably find that he can actually help you, if you give him the chance."

He takes his leave while John sits, stunned into silence, and wonders what on earth has just happened.

* * *

Sherlock gets up to use the bathroom, and when he comes back Mycroft is sat opposite his chair.

He wishes his older brother wouldn't do that. It's annoying.

"What do you want?"

Mycroft doesn't speak for a moment, gazing contemplatively at Sherlock's feet.

"You need new socks. Those ones look awfully threadbare."

"Please tell me you did not come here to talk to me about socks."

Mycroft looks fleetingly uncomfortably and shifts in his chair, ostensibly to cross his legs, although the underlying unease is not missed by either of them.

"I went to see John today."

"Ah."

Mycroft sits back in surprise again, having expected Sherlock to react a little more…well, violently.

"Did you upset him?"

The question is phrased simply and calmly, but only a fool would fail to notice the undercurrent. Mycroft may be many things, but a fool is not one of them.

"I startled him, I think."

"Did. You. Upset. Him?"

The danger is overt now; it has been a long time since Mycroft and Sherlock have come to physical blows and they both remember how the last one ended (Mycroft's nose has never been the same), and the older man holds out his hands placatingly.

"No. I-"

"What on earth is going on here?"

Neither of them had noticed the sound of uneven footsteps coming up the stairs in the tension, and now John is stood between them, wide eyed and confused. Sherlock is on his feet, aggression radiating off him, and Mycroft is leaning back in his chair, his hands still outstretched in an attempt at a peaceful gesture.

They probably look ridiculous.

John clears his throat, still looking between the two of them, and obviously decides that this has the potential to be far more trouble than it's worth.

"I'll just…um…leave you to it then" he mumbles, and hobbles up the stairs.

Sherlock glowers at Mycroft.

"This isn't over" he promises.

The sad thing is, Mycroft thinks, Sherlock is right.


	10. Chapter 10

John is in the strange stage between wakefulness and sleep, where reality blurs and crinkles around the edges of conscious thought, when Sherlock hammers on the door and opens it a moment after.

"Something's going on in Southwark; Lestrade wants me."

Sherlock is out of the door, feet hammering on the stairs before John has even fully woken up, but he returns soon enough, wrapping his scarf briskly around his neck.

"Well? Are you coming?"

John doesn't want to. He is enjoying the warm cocoon of his bed; was enjoying the haze he had been in before he had been so rudely disturbed. But he finds it difficult, when Sherlock snaps his fingers, not to come running. He has never stopped to consider whether it's a byproduct of his army training or simply the younger man's charisma. It doesn't matter either way; before he has really thought about it, he is sliding his feet out of bed and reaching for a jumper, and Sherlock's features dissolve momentarily into pleasure before he shoots off down the stairs again.

"Hurry _up_! We'll miss all the fun!"

* * *

The fun turns out to be no fun for anyone; a tragic suicide for all bar Sherlock, for whom it is a disappointing suicide, and he wastes no time in venting his spleen, the majority of the bile reserved for Lestrade who bears the look of a man who'd really rather be anywhere than where he currently is.

John tries valiantly not to smile as snatches of the conversation float back to him, Sherlock barely pausing for breath in his diatribe against Lestrade, Anderson, the corpse, the government…essentially anyone he can think of.

Donovan lags behind, clearly trying to avoid the line of fire, although John could tell her that it's really an inevitability. Still, if she hasn't learnt yet, he's not going to waste his breath.

He wonders when it was that he started thinking like Sherlock. Then he wonders when it was that thinking like Sherlock stopped being such a bad thing.

* * *

Sherlock follows Lestrade all the way back to Scotland Yard and by association John follows Sherlock, the younger man's grumbling dying down as they arrive and he is placated with a mug of lukewarm coffee.

Of course, nobody thinks to offer John a drink, and he leaves Lestrade apologising profusely for wasting Sherlock's time to go and hunt for the canteen.

He doesn't get more than two corridors away when he hears footsteps behind him, speeding up to meet him, and the sound of a throat clearing.

"You should stay away from Sherlock" comments Anderson, arms crossed in front of him and an unpleasant look on his face. John's eyes narrow, his posture straightening to mirror the other man's.

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me. The man's bad news."

"I'm a big grown man now, Anderson" he says coldly, "I can take care of myself, thank you very much."

Anderson takes a step forward, too close, arms dropping to his side and an unpleasant smirk sliding across his face.

"Not what I've heard" he breathes into John's ear, his breath hot and moist, and it feels like the bottom has fallen out of John's stomach. For a second he can't breathe, and when the air does flood into his lungs he thinks he might vomit.

"I don't know what you're talking about" he rasps, knowing how unconvincing he sounds, and Anderson laughs, his mouth still almost touching the shell of John's ear.

"You can keep telling yourself that, doctor. But neither of us actually believe it."

John's tongue feels dry and heavy in his mouth. He wants to ask if it was Anderson who did it, or whether he knows who did, or whether it's just malevolent rumours and he's testing the water. He wants to punch Anderson in his smug face and wipe that smile off, and he has never felt so sympathetic towards Sherlock's antisocial tendencies as now. He wants to cry that someone else knows.

He does none of these things, but stands stock still and blank faced in the corridor until Anderson moves back and the panic that has been clenching at his nerves and muscles begins to abate.

They stand there for a few moments until John can't hold the other man's cool gaze any longer, and his eyes slip down. It feels like a defeat in a deeper sense than he can fully grasp at that moment, and he thinks Anderson is going to say something for a moment before they hear a voice calling John's name and he immediately moves.

Anderson's arm shoots out, catching him across the chest, and he smirks at John.

"Run back to him then" he says, his voice low and dangerous, "Like the good dog you are."

And god help him, that's exactly what John does.

It's what John will always do.

* * *

He doesn't sleep a wink that night. Anderson's face blurs and sharpens behind his eyelids, his expression alternately flat and mocking, and no matter how many times he turns over to the cool side of his pillow, he can feel the hot gust of breath against his ear.

And he knows Anderson didn't do it. He's been at enough crime scenes with the man to have been pulled and pushed out of the way, has felt the wiry fingers grasp his wrists impatiently, stopping him from going further. Ironic that he is willing to manhandle John, who is far less likely to remove limbs from the corpse than Sherlock, but will only scowl and snap at the other man from a distance. But no; it wasn't Anderson. Fingers too bony, the man doesn't have enough strength to restrain John like that (he suppresses a shiver at the thought, suddenly feeling a pang of sympathy for Sherlock's pathological inability to let a thought go).

But if it wasn't him, Anderson might still know who it was. Certainly knows that it _happened_; he hadn't been bluffing. Would he tell someone? Would it happen again?

He rolls over again, burying his face in the pillow and letting out a frustrated noise deep in the back of his throat.

What had he done to Anderson? Nothing he could think of; the man was deeply unpleasant to his friend, but he himself had never really crossed swords with John. So was all this some ploy to rattle the detective? Was John the bait? Had they assumed that he would go to Sherlock? And what if he had; finding the criminal and bringing him to justice would have been swift and efficient if Sherlock had been involved; what did anyone have to gain by this?

For the first time since it has happened, he feels a surge of anger, rolling around his mouth hot and bitter, and quickly bites down on it. Anger won't help him, he knows – it's a luxury, a senseless emotion.

He takes a deep breath and releases it slowly through his teeth. He feels – knows – that he's playing a game that he isn't going to win, surrounded by men ten times more intelligent than himself, and it's not the first time he's felt helplessly out of his depth.

Kicking the covers aside, he swings his legs out of bed and pads over to the windowsill, twitching the curtain aside. The street is deserted; it usually as at this time of the morning, although he hasn't looked at a clock. A cat trots across the pavement and disappears into shadow and, bored, he sinks back onto his bed, unable to stop himself from sighing heavily.

The insomnia is wearing him down; he has days where he feels energised and beyond exhaustion and days where breathing itself feels like too painful an effort. He feels stretched thin, worn down and any other cliché that comes to his tired mood, and he feels it constantly. It's not dissimilar to a permanent hangover, and the frustration of not being able to sleep it off is…well, immense.

He can hear the sound of Sherlock moving around downstairs. He's not slow enough that he hasn't noticed his flatmates increased efforts to make his life easier; he makes less noise when he thinks John might be sleeping and sometimes even buys milk and teabags. It's vaguely disconcerting, and in some ways John wishes he would stop trying to make things better, because it all feels so irreparable to him.

Sleep still doesn't come.

* * *

Downstairs, Sherlock lies on the sofa and listens to the sounds of John's insomnia, the occasional sigh and creak of floorboards, and wishes he knew how to make it better.


	11. Chapter 11

Donovan props herself up on one elbow, twirling a strand of hair around her fingers, and regards her lover.

"We're going to get caught eventually" she comments, and Anderson ignores her, his eyes closed against the bright morning sun. While he doesn't look at her, his fingers trace a dancing line over her hip and across her ribcage to the underneath of her breast.

He lowers his lips to her collarbone and feels her head tip back, the sheet sliding down to her waist, and he takes a more possessive hold of her, thumbs grazing her hipbones as she makes a quiet noise in the back of her throat.

* * *

Afterwards she looks up at him, curious, and stretches out languorously.

"What's put you in such a good mood?"

He smirks at her, and she bats his hands away playfully, but her eyes are still serious as she looks up at him, and he is reminded why it is that he loves her. She really does care for him, he knows. She worries about him too, and about the allegations that Sherlock makes, about his relationship with his wife. It breaks his heart sometimes that Sally is the one who seems to bear the burden of these worries, when she's the one with the least to lose.

He wonders how she would react to what happened to John. Probably badly; he's never done anything to her, but would she see the bigger picture? Would she understand the repercussions for Sherlock, Sherlock who has always belittled her and knocked her down? He's not sure…

"You" he says simply, touching her chin with his finger and watching her eyes slip closed with a happy smile.

Lestrade sits opposite John, rolling his pint between his hands and shifting awkwardly. John for his part doesn't seem to have noticed; he looks like a zombie, pale and markedly thinner than when he first met Sherlock. Lestrade's no close friend of either man, but he's willing to bet that Sherlock won't have raised the subject and he can't really think who else would.

The problem is, he doesn't know how to approach the situation. He doesn't really know what he's asking; so many things have occurred to him; has there been a bereavement? Is John unwell? Has Sherlock hurt him somehow? It seems unlikely but the more Donovan spouts off about Sherlock being a psychopath the more people start to talk.

Before he can chicken out or John gets up and leaves, Lestrade sits up and fixes him with a _look_.

"Is everything alright, John?"

Watson blinks owlishly at him and smiles.

"Yes, of course. Why do you ask?"

Lestrade flounders, caught in the trap of not wanting to state the bleeding obvious and not wanting to stammer and stutter like an idiot. In the event he does a little of both, mumbling something about looking a bit under the weather and living with Sherlock not being without its challenges, and John smiles benignly.

"He can be difficult, yes" he answers, sidestepping the question, and then on seeing Lestrade's exasperated expression shakes his head, "No, honestly. I'm fine. All this running around London's got me shedding the pounds."

Lestrade keeps his opinion that John most certainly doesn't need to shed any pounds to himself, knowing it won't help.

"Well, if you ever do need anything…"

John smiles, and Lestrade doesn't know if it's wishful thinking, but this one looks a bit more sincere.

"Will do, thanks".

And there's nothing more Lestrade can do.

* * *

When Sally sees John, she has heard all the gossip. How unwell he looks; how Lestrade himself has been to see what's going on and to offer his support, how even Sherlock has been affected and is irritable (moreso than usual) and distracted at work.

It doesn't prepare her for how he looks when he does come in one morning, trailing behind Sherlock.

She has never seen a man look so crumpled; as though someone has removed the framework holding him up and left him to sag. His eyes are glassy with exhaustion and every step looks like an effort; he avoids the gaze of everyone in the room with practiced ease, his eyes flicking back and forth but never engaging.

When Sherlock calls his name, he stops just shy of flinching, and swallows reflexively when anyone other than Sherlock moves too close to him, his fists clenching and relaxing, and Sally wonders how on earth anyone could have not seen these signs.

The obvious answer is that as one of the only females working in the team she is left to work with the victims of domestic abuse, and the men just don't know the signs. She hadn't seen the signs, she reminds herself, until now. How long has it been going on? How many people have failed John Watson?

* * *

She waits until she knows Sherlock is at a case with Lestrade, calling in a favour to buy herself more time, and makes her way briskly to their flat. John answers the bell after a short pause, hair and clothes rumpled in a way that makes her think guiltily that she's roused him from a well-earned sleep.

"Sherlock's out" he says flatly and she moves her foot into the doorway just in case he tries to slam it on her. She doesn't think he would, but there's no telling what kind of effects living with Holmes will have on anyone long-term.

"It was you I wanted" she says calmly, and he looks surprised.

"Would you like to come in?"

She steps over the threshold and follows him up the stairs, politely declining his offer of tea. They both know what she's seen lurking in the cupboards on the many drug busts.

When he asks her, politely, what he can do for her, she has to take a deep breath. She's never had to deal with this situation before, precisely. Abused and assaulted females, hysterical with shock and grief, yes. This, not even close. But her worst shot is still a million times better than anything Lestrade or Anderson or Holmes could manage.

"Look, I know we've never seen eye to eye" she says hesitantly, seeing his shoulders tense already, his mouth set into a hard line, "But please just hear me out, okay?"

He doesn't say anything, arms crossed over his chest.

"I don't know who's hurt you, but you really need to talk to someone about it. For yourself and to protect others in the future. Trust me John, I've had experience in this – I know what you're dealing with…"

She is cut off by John launching himself from his seat, his face stony with fury.

"Did he send you here?" he asks, his mouth twisted, "Did he send you here to mock me?"

Sally stares at him, uncomprehending, terrified of the anger in his eyes. He looks like a wounded animal, capable of lashing out at anyone or anything in his path.

"Nobody sent me here, John" she says softly, holding her hands out in front of her. "I've had experience dealing with domestic…"

"Domestic?"

She'd prefer it if he would rage at her; his quiet, incredulous tone fills her gut with something creeping and unpleasant.

"You think Sherlock has been hitting me, don't you?"

Her silence tells him all he need to know and he lets out a short, barking laugh.

"What makes you think you can help me when you can't even see what's right under your nose?" he asks, and there's no trace of mockery in his voice, just sadness and exhaustion and a tinge of bitterness.

"I don't need your help, Sally. I'm doing just fine."

She leaves helplessly, mind whirring with what he's said and what he hasn't and feeling like she might have made things even worse.

* * *

**AN: I am so blown away with all the reviews, I can't believe how much positive feedback I've been getting so thank you all so much :)**


	12. Chapter 12

The fragile balance lasts for less than a week after Sally has visited John, and when she thinks back at it later she can pinpoint the moment that everything falls into place.

She is sitting on Anderson's sofa, her legs draped over his lap and a glass of wine in her hand when he touches her ankle gently.

"You seem distracted" he observes, studying her face, "Is everything okay?"

She sighs heavily and turns to face him.

"I'm concerned about John Watson" she says, and it feels like a weight off her shoulders to have said the words. The last expectation she has of her lover's reaction is for his lips to curve up in a smile.

"So is Holmes" he says, "Isn't it a wonderful relief?"

Her world fractures and splinters in the moment that it takes her to process his words, and she stares dumbly at him for a moment.

"_Did he send you here to mock me?"_

"_How can you help me when you can't see what's right under your nose?"_

"What do you mean?" she breathes, her chest feeling tight. Anderson doesn't notice; his attention has turned back to the tv and his tone is distracted when he replies.

"Well, he needed to be taught a lesson, didn't he? And what better way to get to someone like him than their pet?"

She recoils, her skin crawling with horror as she stares at him.

"What did you do?"

"I didn't touch him" says Anderson, with a touch of pride. "I'd never do that. Called in a favour instead, friend of a friend."

Sally takes a deep, steadying breath and stands up.

"I have to go home" she says, her voice wavering, "I'll see you tomorrow".

Now she has his attention – he looks suddenly wary.

"Look, Sally, it's nothing that bad. Just making a point to that freak, that's all."

"Yeah, no, I understand" she says, "It's fine. I just have a headache and ought to get an early night…"

He smiles and kisses her forehead, tells her he hopes she feels better soon and that he'll see her tomorrow, and she walks home in a daze.

Her boyfriend, lover, partner, whatever you want to call him…has hired someone else to attack a man who has done them no harm. He works for the _police_, he works to try and stop people's lives being destroyed.

She has to stop to take some deep breaths and fight the rising nausea she feels from his admission, and the sense of panic, and when she finally staggers in through her door all she can do is collapse into her bed and finally let the tears fall.

* * *

The second Sherlock sees her the next morning, he knows something is wrong, and wastes no time in beginning to explain to everyone how poorly rested she looks and the redness of her eyes, before John catches his arm.

"Don't" he says softly, and his kindness only makes her feel worse as their eyes meet. The message is clear – keep quiet. Except she's not sure she can do that.

Sherlock looks between them, his eyes narrowing, but doesn't say anything and not for the first time Sally wonders exactly what arrangement the two men have that enables them to coexist so peacefully.

When Sherlock sweeps off, his mind on something else already, John catches her eye again with a more sympathetic look this time, and she tries a smile which flickers and dies on her lips. He doesn't even try to hide the pallor of his face and the grim set of his mouth, and her stomach clenches at what she knows has happened now. The world spins and blurs around her as John catches hold of her arm and pulls her into an empty office, kicking the door shut behind them.

"For goodness' sake, can't you pretend that everything's okay?" he asks sharply, and immediately subsides, looking chastened. "No, sorry, that was awful."

"It's okay" she says with difficulty, propping herself up against the desk. "I mean, I'm sorry. I didn't…"

"It's fine" he replies shortly, but tempers it with a smile, "Look, Sally, are you alright? It must have been…"

"A shock?" she asks drily, "Yeah, a bit. John, I really want to report him."

"_NO_" he says sharply, and heads prick up on the other side of the door. "No" he says again, more softly, his face pale, "I don't want anyone to know"

She is stricken momentarily speechless by the sheer selfishness, and he knows it by the set of his jaw and tensing of his shoulders.

"You _have_ to tell someone. You can't carry on like this."

There is a faint sheen of sweat on his brow and Sally knows she should stop but the words keep coming.

"You're a mess. You're not sleeping, you're not eating. You're a zombie and eventually all the pain is going to come out and there will be nobody apart from a _highly functioning sociopath_ to look after you. How does that feel, John? Does that feel 'fine'?"

He sways on the spot for a second and with a curse she springs forward, pushing him down into a chair and resting his head between his knees.

"It's fine" he parrots, clearly not even noticing the irony, his voice muffled by his jeans. Sally wants to offer him some kind of comfort but she can feel the stiffness of his back when she stands too close, and backs away a few steps.

"Do you need some water?" she asks hopelessly, and he shakes his head.

"Just give me a second"

She stands in silence, utterly impotent, and is relieved when he finally straightens up, still looking pale and clammy but infinitely more stable.

"Fine?"

His eyes meet hers with an appreciative grin and he nods, one hand on the doorframe.

"Fine."

* * *

It will make sense to John later that the stress of his conversations with Anderson and Donovan is what triggers it...

* * *

Sherlock is downstairs, absently plucking at the E string of his violin and considering that it really could use tuning when he hears a stifled moan from upstairs. He puts down the violin and moves silently towards the staircase, listening closely.

There is the sound of John moving in his sleep and then another moan. For a second Sherlock considers the possibility that he is having an erotic dream, and forces his attention away, until the screaming starts.

He has heard screams before, thousands of them. Screams of pain, of terror, of anger. Aimed at him, quite often. He has never heard John make a noise in discomfort though, and it feels like someone has thrown an ice-cold bucket of water over him.

The screams are piercing and ragged, John barely stopping for breath between. He can hear Mrs Hudson moving around downstairs and stops, frozen, unsure of what to do.

"Sherlock?"

Mrs Hudson's footsteps clatter up, warring with the sound of John's screams, and he moves to the door.

"It's all under control Mrs Hudson. Try to go back to sleep."

He doesn't know that it is, but the last thing he wants if John is being attacked (which he suspects is not the case – he is strong and silent under even the most gruesome of situations) is for her to be standing around in harm's way. He can tell from the hesitant note in her step that she's not happy, but she is leaving, and he springs up the stairs, two at a time, until he reaches John's door.

He pushes it open and stops dead at what he sees, knowing the image will be etched onto his brain for years. John is lying flat, his back arched off the bed, mouth open in a torn scream, fingers clenched and tangled in the sheets, sweat dripping down his brow.

Now he is closer, Sherlock can make out muttering inbetween the screams, though not the exact words, can see the twitch of John's face as he thrashes hopelessly on the bed.

"John" he breathes, his voice cracking in the middle, and the other man doesn't respond apart from to groan and bite his lip hard enough to draw blood.

The sight of red liquid bubbling up on his friend's lip is enough to galvinise Sherlock into action and he moves forward, slowly, hands in front of him.

"John, come on. It's time to wake up now. You're just dreaming."

John's thrashing seems to subside slightly, although his head still shakes from side to side in clear distress.

"No, please, stop" he mumbles, and Sherlock reaches out cautiously to touch his wrist.

"It's a dream, John, wake up."

John's entire body trembles as he inhales, and Sherlock braces himself for another scream, but thankfully he relaxes as he exhales, his limbs going loose under Sherlock's grip as his eyes slide open, unfocussed and glassy.

Sherlock sees what's about to happen and leaps backwards as John lunges forward, fists swinging, stumbling as his feet hit the floorboards at the end of the bed. The few seconds allow John to calm down and when Sherlock looks up the older man has covered his mouth with his hands, pressed up against the headboard, eyes wide with horror.

"I'm so sorry, Sherlock, I thought you were…"

He doesn't finish the sentence, his hands trembling in a way that has absolutely nothing to do with his military service or adrenaline, and a worm of an idea creeps into Sherlock's brain but he quashes it quickly. John is _fine_, he didn't think Sherlock was going to hurt him. Nobody hurts John, apart from that patient at the clinic weeks ago, but that was nothing...

John is still shaking, despite the sweat rolling down his forehead, and Sherlock moved forward, resting his hand on John's shoulder. Almost despite himself, John's head tilts down, trapping Sherlock's hand there, and he lets out a shuddery little sigh.

"What happened?" he asks, and Sherlock sinks down to perch on the side of the bed. John's hands are cold and still trembling, and he catches one of them, rubbing circles over the skin to try and improve the circulation.

"I don't know" he admits, "I heard screaming and came upstairs. It looked like you were having some kind of fit or attack."

John angles his head towards Sherlock, looking at him curiously.

"Did I frighten you?"

"Yes" says Sherlock curtly, not sure who is more surprised by the admission. There are a few moments of silence, and he feels acutely aware that he is still holding John's hand, although surprisingly it is not as unpleasant as he has always perceived human contact to be.

They don't say anything else that night. John doesn't ask Sherlock to leave, and Sherlock doesn't ask what it was that he saw in his dreams that leaves his eyes glazed and his breath hesitant for the rest of the night.

They sit on the bed, side by side and hand in hand, both lost in their own thoughts until the morning comes.

* * *

AN -sorry this took so long! Work is crazy at the moment and I've hit a bit of a block with uploading :(


	13. Chapter 13

They get up the next morning wordlessly, the silence stretching between them. John can tell that Sherlock is preoccupied, irritated even, but he doesn't know why. His head throbs with the lack of sleep, his mind flitting restlessly between thoughts.

He wonders what he screamed in the night to bring Sherlock running; what Sally Donovan is doing at this moment, what Anderson's role in all of this was.

He wonders, fleetingly, if he will ever feel normal again.

* * *

Sally sits uncomfortably at her desk, her mind splintered into a million different directions. She knows the answer on paper, knows what she _should_ do, but she can't bring herself to do it, to ruin one life and add insult to injury in another. When Lestrade passes, she lowers her head quickly to her papers so he won't see the expression on her face.

She never was any good at poker.

* * *

He rolls up his sleeve deftly, not even needing to unfasten the buttons any more. The weight loss isn't what he craves, but the feeling of power over his own body relaxes and thrills him in equal amounts. Letting the blood run is…different. It feels like a release from the tension that builds up inside him, and simultaneously an anchor to reality when sleep deprivation makes him feel like he is floating.

He hates himself for it, from a medical perspective and from the perspective of a man who has seen people die in battle; it feels trivial, pathetic, juvenile. The kind of thing that he always sneered at as a junior doctor.

John watches the blood bubble up to the surface of his skin, coalescing into dark droplets and trailing down the crook of his elbow, and feels the sudden urge to laugh at what he has turned into.

He looks up, and the smile falls from his face as his eyes drop closed and he takes a hasty step backwards. The man in the mirror doesn't look like John Watson any more – not that he minds that, he's always found his face too plump, eyes lost within crinkles of skin – but what distresses him is what he does look like.

Shadowed eyes, pale papery skin, a hailstorm of scars littering his arm, and a guarded look that just won't leave however hard he tries…

He looks like a rape victim and the thought makes him want to cry.

He needs to talk to someone, he realises with no small amount of displeasure. He needs Sally.

* * *

Lestrade looks at the papers on his desk that he's supposed to be doing something with – god knows what – and stares at the wall again. He doesn't know what to think, apart from that something is going on with Anderson and Donovan and the former hasn't turned up to work with the other sitting at her desk like a ghost, staring into space. Add to that the fact that Sherlock hadn't been himself for weeks, and Watson was essentially turning into a walking skeleton (and he wonders if there's a link between the two), Lestrade's life is not easy.

He picks up the phone decisively, hesitates for a fraction of a second, and then taps in Sally's extension.

"Can I have a word?"

When Sally walks in he can tell she's been crying. Her eyes aren't red but she's wearing no make up and he didn't have to channel Sherlock to deduce that she expects to cry again.

"Sally" he says gently, "Can you tell me what's going on?"

Her lip wobbles suspiciously and her fingers tighten around the frame of the chair.

"I'm not sure that I can" she says, her eyes fixed on a stain on his desk, unblinking, and Lestrade hasn't expected that.

"Are you in trouble?"

She doesn't say anything for a moment, but he sees the fat tear roll down her cheek and splash onto her knee and feels a wave of sympathy for her. She's not had the easiest of times he knows - a woman in a man's world, having an affair with a married man which is the Yard's worst kept secret and the scratching post for Sherlock Holmes – but he has never known her to show even a flicker of weakness before now.

"No" she says finally, still not meeting his eyes, and he doesn't want to ask the next question.

"Is it Anderson?"

She looks up at him suddenly, her face stricken, and an unpleasant feeling uncoils in his stomach.

"I don't know what to do" she says, her voice so quiet he can barely hear her, "I know something that I don't want to, and I don't know what to do."

He sits back, massaging his temples, feeling the onset of what is likely to be a long-lasting headache. Tears are trickling freely down Sally's face now, and he pushes a box of tissues towards her, aware that he's not being as sympathetic as he could but stumped by the situation. He doesn't feel he can force the answer out of her, and in some ways if it involves Anderson then he's not sure he wants to know.

They sit there in silence, both trying to build up the courage to make the first move, tears still dripping down Sally's face although she doesn't sob, her jaw clenched so tightly it must be painful.

"Sally…"

"He paid someone to attack someone else" she says, the words all coming out in a stream with a hitch in her breath at the end, and then unable to restrain herself her resolve breaks and she sobs loudly, burying her face in her hands.

Lestrade's breath leaves him with a whoosh and the pieces fall into place.

"No"

The word, the denial is a waste of time. He knows from the look on Sally's face that it's true, and she doesn't need to reiterate it.

When she looks at him, her eyes are shadowed and exhausted and he feels a pang of sympathy.

"I thought he was a good man" she says, dashing the tears away with the back of her hand, "I'm sorry."

Lestrade passes a hand over his face as though he can brush off the exhaustion and sick feeling twisting in his gut.

"Can you tell me what you know?" he asks, not even slightly surprised when she shakes her head, "Sally, please."

She sniffles, suddenly looking much younger than her age, fragile and distressed, and begins to talk.

* * *

Sherlock gazes unseeingly out of the window. He is certain there's something he's missing, some key fact that will piece together the puzzle, and he's not naïve enough to think that his feelings, platonic as they are, aren't having some sort of effect on his intellectual capabilities. He feels oddly protective over John, for no rational reason. The man's an ex-army doctor for goodness' sake, he's more than capable of looking after himself, and yet Sherlock can't help but to feel this wave of concern every time he looks at the other man.

It's been like watching someone fade away in front of his eyes, literally and metaphorically. It hasn't escaped his notice how John avoids food, how he spends time alone so much more, avoids eye contact and physical touches. He sees it, but he doesn't understand what it _means_, doesn't understand what he's meant to do.

He doesn't stir when he hears John come downstairs, hesitating at the doorframe. There's a pause of three, maybe four beats where the footfalls stop, and then he hears them padding down to the front door and resumes his gaze into the middle distance for a few seconds before inspiration strikes and he leaps to his feet again.

"Follow him!" he exclaims to himself, and grabs his coat.

John makes his way through the office to Donovan's desk, and stops dead when he sees her.

"What happened?" he asks, his stomach knotting uncomfortably as he takes in her puffy eyes and dishevelled hair.

She looks up at him, her eyes full of apology, and shakes her head.

"I'm sorry John," her voice cracks, "I had to tell someone. It's my job."

He loses his breath momentarily, feeling as though he's been kicked in the gut, ears ringing uncomfortably.

"They've taken him away."

Even through the cold rush of horror and adrenaline he can feel a stab of sympathy for her, having turned in her lover and partner.

"I'm sorry" he says, hoping the words sound heartfelt, because he can barely hear over the rushing in his ears and the thumping in his chest. Sally looks up at him, concern on her face, and says something he can't hear, her hand reaching up. He jerks away violently, too violently, overcome with the horror of everyone knowing now what's happened, and as he steps back from her outstretched hand and horrified face his collides with something large and firm behind him.


	14. Chapter 14

He turns around to see Sherlock, scarf haphazardly draped around his neck and hair ruffled. His eyes are narrowed, mouth pressed into a thin line, and he can barely feel his hands suddenly. There's so much noise around, he can hear Sally and Lestrade shouting what feels like a very long way away and his eyes are locked with Sherlock's, Sherlock who's just standing there pale and still as a statue and not saying anything, and it feels so wrong.

John's feet are leaden and his hands are shaking. His chest hurts and his lips feel numb, and somehow despite all of that he manages to turn tail and run, ignoring the cries behind him. His feet slap painfully against the hard concrete and his lungs burn, his vision swimming with the sight of Sherlock's face, the thought of what he might have heard, of how Sally had looked at him.

He runs until he cannot physically run further and collapses against a wall, every muscle in his body screaming in protest. He ignores the concerned looks of passers by as he slumps down to the pavement, his vision greying out in front of his eyes and sparks burst when he blinks.

"Are you alright sir?" someone asks, and he can't even focus on their face as his consciousness swims in and out of focus, let alone fathom out an answer.

"He's fine" gasps someone, a familiar voice with a shock of dark hair, and he can dimly make out Sherlock bent double with his hands on his knees trying to catch his breath.

"Are you sure?"

He can almost see the sneer on Sherlock's face.

"Yes I'm sure. Scram"

The offended passer-by does so, and through his haze of fatigue and confusion John sees Sherlock approach slowly, carefully, as a normal person would a wounded animal. The thought of Sherlock approaching an animal makes him giggle, and Sherlock pauses cautiously.

"John" he says, as though making sure it really is him, looking for a response, but John cannot bring himself to raise his head. He wants nothing more than to sink into unconsciousness, but Sherlock is suddenly in front of him with his hands on John's knees and his fingertips digging into his thighs, and it _hurts_.

"Please" he says, and then finds that he has no idea how to finish the sentence and trails off into silence. Sherlock moves closer, his hands resting on John's shoulders, and John braces himself for the insightful commentary that he knows is coming.

Except it doesn't.

"You're shaking" Sherlock comments in a soft, reassuring voice that John didn't know that he possessed, his thumbs moving in concentric circles over John's shoulders. It feels more soothing than it had any right to, and his breathing slows infinitesimally, the tightening in his chest easing and his vision clearing.

"Let's go home."

* * *

It doesn't surprise John that there's a car waiting for them, nor that it's a black car with no registration and tinted windows. He wonders when this became normal and not disconcerting at all. Sherlock sits next to him, close enough but not touching, and doesn't say a word to the driver although John's sure they're going back to Baker St. The journey passes in complete silence, although whether Sherlock's caught in his own thoughts or just trying to be considerate he can't tell.

He feels like he's calmed down when the car pulls up to Baker Street; his hands have stopped trembling and the world isn't fading in and out of focus. However when he tries to step out of the car his knees buckle and he collapses against the car, shame burning at his cheeks as he feels Sherlock thread an arm under his shoulder and pull him upright.

He is almost carried into the flat and if he wasn't so exhausted he would be impressed by Sherlock's strength; the other man is breathing heavily when he deposits John on the sofa, but his step didn't falter as he took the steps bearing both of their weight.

"I'll put the kettle on" says Sherlock, sounding oddly uncertain, and while John wants to snap at him to leave him alone and let him sleep, and go back to being his usual brusque self, he doesn't have the heart to. Instead he closes his eyes and tries to relax into the sofa as he hears the sound of the kettle whistling and the clinking of mugs in the kitchen. The odd role reversal of the scene isn't lost on him; if he had more energy he might smile at it.

"The tea didn't go so well" announces Sherlock, waltzing back into the room. John rouses himself from his half-awake state and cracks an eye open.

"How….?"

"Well, the milk's off and the tea-bags may have been…re-appropriated."

John blinks, and stares at Sherlock. Their eyes meet for a split second and before he can stop it, the laughter has bubbled up and spilled over his lips, his eyes creasing at the corner as he tries not to imagine what Sherlock has done with all the teabags. His housemate regards him, head cocked and brow furrowed, and that just makes John laugh even harder, and as much as he tries to keep the note of hysteria out he knows he hasn't quite managed it; again, he has broken under pressure, and without a second's warning his chuckles turn to sobs and he hides his face in his hands.

His only warning is a rustle as Sherlock moves closer, and then hands on his shoulders again, and he tries to still his silent sobs as though he can pretend that it's all alright and that he's not falling apart from the inside out. Sherlock has such a tight hold on his shoulders it feels like his friend has understood his thoughts and is trying to hold him together like the pieces of a broken vase without any glue.

"John, please" Sherlock says urgently, his grip almost painful, "Tell me."

John laughs bitterly through his hiccups.

"Don't tell me you didn't hear enough" he says flatly, and Sherlock sighs.

"You always overestimate my emotional capacity" he says with a hint of sadness, and when John looks up his eyes are shadowed, "I find it very difficult to connect emotional cues with hypotheses – that's always been Mycroft's forte."

John takes a breath and releases it again, not sure what to say.

"I think I understand", Sherlock continues slowly, his eyes fixed on John's knees as he turns it over in his head, "You were attacked. Not by the clinic patient as you told me; and more brutally than I credited. And Anderson had some involvement, although not personally or you would have had a marked emotional reaction much earlier than this. But for Donovan to be so distressed, it must have been his hand in it somewhere. There must have been something that repulsed her. And it must have been something unpleasant enough for her to tell Lestrade."

John cringes away and waits for the hammer blow of the words, but they don't come. Sherlock drums his fingers on John's shoulders thoughtfully, his eyes distant.

"I don't understand why I didn't see it earlier" he says carefully, "I'm afraid that I've let you down terribly."

Something in John's gut twists painfully at the tone in Sherlock's voice; genuinely surprised and saddened, and his eyes are full of guilt when John meets them.

"It wasn't your fault" John breathes, his fingers ghosting out to trace the planes of Sherlock's knuckles, feeling them tighten beneath his touch.

"You imply that it's somehow your fault" he responds neutrally, and John's eyes drop to his lap. They sit in silence for a few moments, and John is excruciatingly aware of the stickiness of the tears drying on his face. He wants to dash them away without drawing attention to his weakness, and he's so focussed on that that he doesn't notice Sherlock reaching up and swiping them away with the pad of his thumb. The gentle touch makes him lose his breath for a moment and he bites his lip, heart aching at the contact.

"I wish you'd told me before" murmurs Sherlock, his thumb still resting against John's cheekbone in a gesture that feels painfully intimate, and not for the first time John struggles to reconcile the different facets of the detective. "I could have helped."

John barks out a humourless laugh and shakes his head, knocking Sherlock's hand away.

"That's just why I didn't tell you" he says coldly, not caring how cruel the words are, "You just see me as a case, a puzzle to be solved, and most of the time that's fine, but this isn't…I can't…"

His voice breaks off and he slumps back again, digging the palms of his heels into his eyes so hard that he sees stars.

"Can we not do this right now?" he asks desperately, and Sherlock sighs.

"I'm trying to help."

He sounds petulant and John has to fight laughter as well as exhaustion for a moment before, shaking his head and getting to his feet. He has come to expect the wave of dizziness as he stands but Sherlock's steadying hand on his elbow makes him jump and his cheeks burn with a new flush of shame.

"I just want to sleep" he whines, unconsciously leaning into the taller man, tiredness sweeping over him with an almost painful intensity, and Sherlock's arm slides around his waist. Against his better wishes he suddenly relaxes, his knees giving beneath him, and the arm tightens, pulling John in close. Sherlock is murmuring something above him, but John's too gone by this point to be able to decipher it let alone respond, and he allows his eyes to drift shut and sleep to claim him.


	15. Chapter 15

Funny things, fics. I swear I had a great plan for this, and now reading back I can hardly even recognise my own writing. But for what it's worth - I am reading back on it now, I am considering where it will go and I will be continuing with it. Huge thanks to everyone who has commented and added to their favourites - without the notifications I certainly would have just left this to rot in the archives!

Watch this space ;)


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